Beyond the Golden Rule: A Parents Guide to Preventing and Responding to Prejudice
Written by Dana Williams
Illustrations by Vincent Nguyen
The first conversation my mother ever initiated with me about tolerance happened the
night before I started first grade. I’d just finished my bath and slipped into my Muppets pajamas, which matched the Muppets lunchbox I’d painstakingly chosen for the new school year. I dragged out what we called the hairbasket, a large wicker container of combs,
brushes, detanglers, ribbons and barrettes. Then I sat between my mother’s knees while she parted and braided my hair. On and on I chatted about the colorful new ensemble I planned to wear, how I would
surely have the prettiest outfit and hair and, of course, the best shoes of all the girls in my class. My mother pulled extra hard on the section of hair she was braiding, one of her ways of expressing displeasure with something I’d said or done. I winced, and she told me something I’ve never forgotten: “You’re not any better than anyone at that school, and don’t you ever behave like you are. And no one at that school is any better than you, and don’t you ever let them make you believe they are.” I didn’t know it then, but that statement was my mother’s attempt to introduce the concept of tolerance to me, long before it was the buzzword it has become today. My mother was teaching me to resist the notion of supremacy — both my own and other people’s.
She went on to offer her version of the Golden Rule: “I want you to always treat others like you’d want them to treat you — even if you were barefoot and dressed in rags.”
Those words echoed throughout my childhood, doled out as a one-size-fits-all solution
to whatever social problems I faced at school.
Beyond the Golden Rule: A Parents Guide to Preventing and Responding to Prejudice
Written by Dana Williams
Illustrations by Vincent Nguyen
The first conversation my mother ever initiated with me about tolerance happened the
night before I started first grade.
I’d just finished my bath and slipped into my Muppets pajamas, which matched the
Muppets lunchbox I’d painstakingly chosen for the new school year.
I dragged out what we called the hairbasket, a large wicker container of combs,
brushes, detanglers, ribbons and barrettes. Then I sat between my mother’s knees while
she parted and braided my hair.
On and on I chatted about the colorful new ensemble I planned to wear, how I would
surely have the prettiest outfit and hair and, of course, the best shoes of all the girls in
my class.
My mother pulled extra hard on the section of hair she was braiding, one of her ways
of expressing displeasure with something I’d said or done.
I winced, and she told me something I’ve never forgotten: “You’re not any better than
anyone at that school, and don’t you ever behave like you are. And no one at that school
is any better than you, and don’t you ever let them make you believe they are.”
I didn’t know it then, but that statement was my mother’s attempt to introduce the
concept of tolerance to me, long before it was the buzzword it has become today. My
mother was teaching me to resist the notion of supremacy — both my own and other
people’s.
She went on to offer her version of the Golden Rule: “I want you to always treat others
like you’d want them to treat you — even if you were barefoot and dressed in rags.”
Those words echoed throughout my childhood, doled out as a one-size-fits-all solution
to whatever social problems I faced at school.